Page 9 of Cross Down
From the van, Clyde says, “All right, genius, what’s waiting for us at Indiana Avenue Northwest?”
Pope grins. “Metro Police headquarters.”
Chapter
7
It’s a sunnySeptember morning and there’s a hint of fall in the air. After parking my black Jeep Grand Cherokee, I walk my daughter, Willow, the few blocks to her school. Other students are walking along as well, and I see more parents than usual taking their children into the old one-story brick-and-concrete building.
I’m so tall that Willow has to reach up to take my hand, but she doesn’t seem to mind and I certainly don’t. I’m already dreading that future time when Willow won’t want to hold her daddy’s hand. For now, I relish every precious moment with my little girl, even the weird way she insists on eating her two eggs cooked sunny-side up—out of a bowl and with a spoon.
A Metro Police cruiser rolls by, followed by a National Guard Humvee, and I feel a bit less worried, knowing that at least some preparations are under way for the coming attack.
We stop at a corner, look both ways, and cross when it’s clear. We’re less than a block from school when Willow says, “Daddy?”
“Right here, sweetie.”
“Daddy, are we safe?”
I squeeze her hand. “Of course we are. Why are you asking?”
In a concerned voice, she says, “Mrs. Brewer looks scared, and so does Mrs. Lucianne. They talk a lot in whispers, and the teachers seem scared too.” Mrs. Brewer is the school principal, and Mrs. Lucianne is the assistant principal. Willow says, “We usually have a safety drill every month, but now we have them every few days. Like they’re scared. Like we’re not safe.”
The safety drill covers everything from a fire in the school to a gas leak, but its real purpose is to prepare for an active shooter in the building.The way of our troubled lives,I think.
We get to the school entrance. Usually when I walk Willow to school, I drop her off at the front door with a quick hug and kiss. But not today. Today I take her inside.
We pass through the doors, and there are four school security officers, double the usual complement. Willow drops her knapsack and it goes through the X-ray machine, and she goes through a metal detector. I display my detective shield and walk around the detectors, and some aides and teachers call out hello to Willow and me.
I feel better with Willow inside her school.
She picks up her knapsack from the X-ray machine and shrugs it over her tiny shoulders. “You’re getting a ride home from Mrs. Doolittle, remember?” I say.
Mrs. Doolittle is a reliable, helpful neighbor who works from home as an IT consultant and has a son, Tomas, a year younger than Willow.
Willow nods and says, “I know. But Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t like this new knapsack you got me. It feels heavy and stiff.”
“But I like the way it looks on you,” I say.
“I want something different,” she says. “Can we do that?”
I lean down and kiss the top of her head. “Give it a couple of weeks, all right? Maybe you just need some time to get used to it.”
Willow smiles, and although I always love that smile, there’s a sad ghost there, the spirit of her dead mother, Billie.
“Have a good day, Willow. Love you lots.”
“Bye, Daddy,” she says. “Love you lots too.”
With her safely in school, I walk outside and head to my Grand Cherokee. I’m ready to get back to work, confident in my ability to protect this city and its people, confident that I can protect my family.
Like that heavy and stiff knapsack Willow is carrying, a special gift to her that contains a secret only I know: the backpack has bullet-resistant panels sewn into the stiff fabric to give her protection if and when the shooting starts.
Chapter
